Sentenced to Death (23 page)

The bell over the door rang, and Cheryl Griffin stepped over the threshold. This day she had on black slacks that hovered just above her ankles, and a pink long-sleeved knit top that looked too warm for the weather. Tricia rang up her customer’s purchases, keeping an eye on Cheryl as she flitted around the store, picking up books, looking them over, and then replacing them on the shelves. When Tricia bid her customer a good afternoon, Cheryl hightailed it to the cash desk.

“Hello,” Tricia greeted her. “What can I do for you today, Cheryl?”

“I hear you’ve lost an employee. I’m here to fill out an application for the job.”

Application? Tricia hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I don’t have any forms to fill out,” she began, but Cheryl cut her off.

“I’ve got a résumé,” she said, dipping into her purse to retrieve a piece of paper. She handed the creased document to Tricia. It had seen better days.

Tricia skimmed each entry on the error-ridden typed page. The poor woman had never worked anything but minimum wage jobs, and either her typing or her spelling was atrocious.

“I won’t give my Social Security number unless you actually hire me,” Cheryl said. “I worry about having my identity stolen.”

She didn’t need to fear it from Tricia. Masquerading as Cheryl Griffin would be the last thing on Tricia’s to-do list.

“I haven’t even listed the job with an employment agency yet. But I’ll certainly keep you in mind,” Tricia said, and bent to place the résumé under the counter.

“That’s the only one I’ve got,” Cheryl said. “Why don’t you make a copy of it?”

This woman didn’t have a clue how to approach a prospective employer. Rather than give her a lecture on the subject, Tricia turned on the all-in-one printer under the cash desk and copied the paper. She handed the original back to Cheryl.

“What does the job pay?” Cheryl asked.

“It’s minimum wage, I’m afraid.”

Cheryl frowned. “Deborah Black told me that you paid Ginny Wilson at least five bucks an hour more than that. I’d expect the same.”

Ginny had been an exceptional employee who had started at minimum wage and quickly proved to be worth far more than that. And why had Deborah disclosed that kind of information, anyway?

“I’m sorry. That’s all I can offer at this time.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Cheryl grumbled, and refolded the résumé. “When are you going to make a decision? I really need this job.”

“Ginny only left yesterday. I haven’t given it too much thought.”
And if you’re the only job candidate, I might not replace her at all
, Tricia thought. “I do still have another employee who is willing to cover for Ginny’s absence.”

“I guess,” Cheryl said, none too graciously. “But as you can see, I’ve worked a lot of retail jobs.”

“So I see, but what do you know about mysteries?”

“What’s to know? Somebody always gets killed.”

“Many of my customers ask for recommendations. I like my staff to be knowledgeable about the genre.”

Cheryl shrugged. “Just tell me what books you want me to push, and I’ll push them.”

“I’m afraid I don’t work that way,” Tricia said, using every bit of tact she possessed to keep her voice level with this alien from the planet Nimrod.

“I watch a lot of television. Do you sell books based on the
CSI
series?”

“I’m afraid my stock is mostly classic mysteries. Agatha Christie, Josephine Tey, Dorothy L. Sayers . . .”

“Never heard of them.” Cheryl looked thoughtful for a moment and then brightened. “Maybe you could give me a couple of books and I could read them before I start work. Being unemployed, I have a lot of time on my hands.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you do,” Tricia said.

Cheryl stood there, staring at Tricia. “So, what books do you think I should read?”

“Why don’t we wait and see what happens first. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time.”

Cheryl’s expression darkened. “It sounds like you don’t want to hire me.”

“As I told you, I’m not even sure I’m going to be hiring anyone.”

“But you said the job paid minimum wage.”

“If there
were
a job, that’s what it would pay.”

Cheryl’s lips were now a thin line, and her brows had furrowed. “It doesn’t sound like you really know how to run a store. Is that why you paid Ginny so much, because she was really the brains behind the business?”

The door opened and a customer walked in before Tricia had an opportunity to answer the question. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m Tricia. Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

“I’m looking for some Rex Stout first editions,” the man said.

“Let me show you where they are.” She turned back to Cheryl. “I’m sorry, but I really must help this customer. I have your information and will call and let you know if I can use you.”

Cheryl tightened the grip on her purse strap and stalked across the store to the door. She didn’t say good-bye.

“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” the gentleman offered.

Tricia conjured up her most winning smile. “Not at all. Now, let me show you our Nero Wolfe collection.”

All too soon the shop was empty once again, and Tricia ducked behind the counter seeking Miss Marple’s company. “Were we this lonely when we first opened the store?” she asked the cat.

Miss Marple opened one sleepy eye, regarded Tricia for a couple of seconds, and then flopped back to doze in the afternoon sunshine.

The door handle rattled, the bell overhead jingled, and in walked Elaine Capshaw. She was dressed casually, in a white, scoop-necked shirt and green capri pants and sandals, with a massive straw purse thrown over her left shoulder. Angelica probably had a similar purse stashed in one of her closets. She, too, liked them big. Elaine had also colored her hair since the last time they’d met, which made her look less weary—more like a woman ready to get on with her life.

“Mrs. Capshaw,” Tricia greeted. “Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. What brings you to Stoneham?” Too late, Tricia noticed the woman’s eyes were red-rimmed and that she’d obviously been crying. “Can I get you some coffee?” she asked, feeling like a heel.

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

Tricia hurried over to the beverage station and poured a cup. Elaine followed. She set her purse on the floor and accepted the cup. Tricia pushed the nondairy creamer and sweeteners toward her, but Elaine shook her head. She took a sip. “Nice blend.”

“I get it from the Coffee Bean across the street.”

“Can you believe it? I’ve lived in Milford for the past twenty years and never ventured into Stoneham before today.”

“From what I hear, until the last few years—when the booksellers arrived—there was no reason to.”

Elaine nodded and took another sip. She frowned. “I had to see where Monty died. At first I told myself it wasn’t necessary, but—I didn’t think I could move on until I did.”

Tricia wasn’t quite sure what to say to that—so she said nothing.

“I was surprised,” Elaine continued. “There’s not much to see. Just some missing lawn and the crumpled gazebo. I’m sure the grass will soon grow back and they’ll repair the gazebo, and in a couple of years no one will ever remember that two people died there.”

Tricia had tried hard to put the memory of the crash out of her mind, but she was sure she would never forget the horror of seeing the small plane smash into the gazebo, killing her friend.

“I’ll remember,” she said quietly.

Elaine’s mouth trembled and she took another sip of coffee. “I understand there are five stages of grief, but I’m afraid I haven’t got time to go through them. My financial situation . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

Tricia’s eyes widened. Was Elaine unaware of the tenthousand-dollar deposit that had been made in her—or was it only her husband’s—bank account? She bit her lip to keep from asking about it. And Russ had said Monty was insured to the hilt—did she know that, too?

Looking into Elaine’s grief-stricken eyes, Tricia doubted she was aware of her upcoming economic windfall.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked.

Elaine sighed. “I need to find a job. I’ve been out of the job market for quite a while; my skills are pretty rusty.”

“What were you thinking of applying for?”

“I used to be a secretary, but that was before employers wanted you to know every software program on the planet, plus do their accounting,
and
make coffee
and
scrub the toilet, too. I’ll probably have to settle for a retail position.”

Tricia bit her lip. Should she offer Ginny’s job to Elaine Capshaw? So far, she’d liked what she’d seen of the woman. She was mature, probably more than capable. “Do you like mysteries?”

Elaine gave a halfhearted laugh. “I read them all the time. I’m constantly nagging the director over at the Wadleigh Memorial Library in Milford to buy more of my favorite authors.”

“Does she?” Tricia asked.

Elaine smiled. “You bet. I love cozy mysteries, and Mary Jane Maffini is one of my favorite authors. I just love her Charlotte Adams mysteries—but the library carries her Canadian titles, too. I like the classics, too. I’ve always loved Josephine Tey’s books, and I think I have every one of them. And then there’s the queen of mystery, Agatha Christie. Nobody did it better.”

Tricia mulled it over for all of ten seconds before asking, “Elaine, how would you like to come and work for me?”

“Here?” she asked, surprised.

“It just so happens my full-time employee was offered the manager’s job for a business across the street.” She didn’t bother to tell Elaine that her husband had killed the former owner. That would come out in its own good time.

“Oh, well. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Think about it,” Tricia said. “You don’t have to make a decision today.”

“But I can’t leave you hanging.”

“Take a couple of days. If it seems like something you’d like to try, we’ll give it a go.”

“Thank you, Ms. Miles.”

“Tricia,” she said, and offered her hand.

Elaine shook it. “Thank you, Tricia. She gazed out the window. I don’t know if I could pass the place where Monty died every day. But”—she looked around the store—“I sure like what I see here.”

“Think about it,” Tricia said again.

Just then Elaine’s purse moved, and a quiet “
yip
” sounded. Over at the cash desk, Miss Marple stirred, looking alertly around her. The purse moved again, and Elaine looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t usually make any noise when we go anywhere.”

“You’ve got Sarge in your bag?” Tricia asked.

“He doesn’t like to be alone,” she admitted, and picked up the purse. As she did so, a small curly white head popped out of the top of the bag.
“Yip,”
Sarge said again, cocking his head to one side. Tricia was sure the dog had been bred just to look cute.

Miss Marple jumped down from the cash desk, trotted over to the beverage station, committing a total breach of kitty etiquette, and jumped onto the counter. She glared at Sarge, who wasn’t quite sure what to make of the cat. Had he ever seen one before?

The fur along Miss Marple’s back stood on end and she reared back and hissed at the dog.

“Miss Marple,” Tricia admonished.

Sarge blinked at the cat, then lunged forward to lick her. Miss Marple jumped from the counter. Sarge made a mighty leap from the bag, but Elaine caught him before he could charge after the cat. She struggled to hold on to the wiggling dog, while Miss Marple beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the shop’s washroom.

“I’m so sorry,” Tricia apologized.

“No need. Cats and dogs are like oil and water—they don’t mix all that well.”

She placed the dog back into her purse, but Sarge began to whine, his eyes riveted on the spot where he had last seen Miss Marple. “I’m afraid I’ll have to find some kind of doggy day care for Sarge before I can accept any kind of job. I certainly can’t bring him with me to work.”

That was a given.

She hefted the bag over her shoulder, and Sarge disappeared from sight.

“Doesn’t he get heavy?” Tricia asked.

“He only weighs ten pounds. I’ve gotten used to lugging him around with me.” She smiled. “Thanks for your hospitality. And I really will give the job offer some serious consideration. I’ll let you know before the weekend.”

Tricia extracted a business card from the holder on the counter. “That would be good, thank you.”

Elaine tucked the card into the outside pocket of her bag. “Thanks again.” The bell tinkled as she closed the door behind her.

As though sensing the danger had passed, Miss Marple poked her head around the washroom’s door.

“It’s okay, that big, mean dog is gone,” Tricia called.

Miss Marple sauntered back through the shop to jump onto the cash desk, while Tricia got out the disinfectant spray and cleaned the beverage center’s counter. “You were naughty,” she admonished, but Miss Marple ignored her, instead turning her face to the afternoon sun, closing her eyes, and enjoying her sunbath as though nothing had happened.

Tricia tossed the paper towel into the trash, hopeful Elaine Capshaw would take the job. She liked Elaine, but it was asking a lot for the poor woman to have to face the site where her husband had died. Still, if Tricia had already found one likely candidate for the job, there had to be others. There was no way she could work with Cheryl Griffin.

The day dragged on. Customers came and went.

Tricia’s stomach growled and she eyed the clock. With Mr. Everett working with Ginny for the day—possibly week?—there’d be no time for lunch. She’d have to call Angelica and tell her she wouldn’t make it to Booked for Lunch for her usual tuna plate. But just as she reached for the phone, the door opened and Mr. Everett entered.